Leah Lays London

A reader asks: would it be fair to say that your life revolves around sex?

No.

It would be fair to say that my blog revolves around sex. This is what I choose to write about. You are viewing me through a misshaped lens. To use a dubious analogy, think of a Picasso painting where the genitals are magnified and distorted. Can you call this a representational portrait?

I don’t tell about my studies, my research, or my work. This is why I am in London, however. It occupies most of my time. It is an intellectual challenge and a thrill. I am lucky to have this pleasure in my life. I don’t tell about the oddities of academia. I don’t tell about playing the non-skin flute in a pickup orchestra. I don’t tell about hanging out with friends, exploring the bookshops, going to the museums, seeing plays, or experiencing the vibrant music scene I have discovered in this city. I don’t tell about wandering the streets on weekends or trying new cuisine. I don’t tell about evenings in pubs drinking in the company of friends and colleagues. I don’t tell about shopping with my girlfriends. I don’t tell about home, or how I miss it.

I tell about fucking. This is undeniably a significant part of who and what I am. But there’s more to a person than the sex that is had. Even in what I write, I don’t enter the emotional or confessional mode often. A prism bends the light and separates the colors. You’re seeing but one hue.

Sex is anyway not essential the way food is, so my life doesn’t require it. I have had celibate stretches in my past. But I enjoy fucking and don’t see the need to deprive myself anymore than I see a need to live my life without music.

Is triple penetrated oral, anal, vaginal?

Yes. It has been asked severaltimesnow, so I might as well say a few words.

When I was an undergraduate discovering my sexual persona, I tried out the local D/s scene — i.e., sex clubs and sex parties. I met a couple of decent, trustworthy, playful doms who guided me through a sequence of sexual discoveries. The scene was an exuberance for someone still new to sex and kink. I prefer one on one now. My last time in a club was three years ago — it was a dungeon theme. I left after half an hour. The excitement had vanished.

At twenty, I participated in gang bangs. I have had double digit cocks in me in a single night. I had seen double and triple penetration in porn and wanted to try it out.

Being multiply penetrated is an exercise in geometry. It is not easy to get three or four people moving in tempo. Sucking a cock while being fucked from below or behind is the easiest. Having a cock in the pussy and anus at the same time is more tricky. Invariably a penis slips out, and we need to pause to reposition ourselves. The fullness both ways is amazing. It hurts somewhat to begin. But usually, there is so much going on that the adrenaline overwhelms the discomfort. I feel replete when plugged front and back. The third cock in my mouth to make me watertight completes the tableau.

I envision doing this again. But it is not a priority. For threesomes, I prefer female-female-male to female-male-male.

I’m interested where the pleasure comes from.

I am an alpha personality. I am fastidious and in control over most facets of my life. Sex is where I let go. Pleasure derives from offering my body and allowing it to become a projection of my partner’s will. The decision to be submissive is a conscious choice. But here, as on the blog, I reserve the last word. I retain a veto. This isn’t theoretical: I have used it. I also have ideas of my own. Sometimes I am guilty of topping from the bottom. A dominant needs a formidable personality to tame me. Physical submission is not the same as mental submission. The latter yields the better high.

The pleasure comes from novelty. The pleasure comes from doing things differently. The pleasure comes from challenging my body. The pleasure comes from pain. The pleasure comes from giving my partner pleasure. The pleasure comes, very rarely, from the vastness of a subspace. (I was there most recently on days six and eight of my boyfriend’s visit.)

A reader (one of the same ones as before) sends in many questions. I don’t have the patience to answer them all. Here are selected replies.

1. How old were you when you lost your virginity?

Virginity is, in my opinion, an outdated concept. It is not a possession to be hoarded. There’s no value to keeping it. Ideally, we start having sex when we are ready.

My first oral happened when I was 14. My first intercourse happened when I was 15. My first time with a girl happened when I was 17.

The oral sex took place at a friend’s birthday party. We were unsupervised by adults. It started off as a game of truth or dare and degenerated from there. In an upstairs bedroom, I masturbated a boy I had a crush on through his pants. He fished out his cock and asked me to touch it. I had seen porn. The handjob turned into a blowjob. Putting the cock in my mouth was entirely my decision. Despite seeing and reading about it and practicing on bananas, I had no idea what I was doing. I just held the penis over my tongue and bobbed my head slightly. It didn’t take much for him to come. The orgasm took me by surprise. I gagged. But I also managed to swallow most of the semen. We were incredibly shy around each other for months afterwards. When we were both in college, we hooked up again. The second time was much better.

The first intercourse took place on a weekday afternoon. The boy was my age and also hadn’t gone all the way. He and I had his house to ourselves during spring break. We ended up naked on his bed. The sex lasted two or three minutes at the most. He was on top and grunted and humped over me and finally convulsed. There was no blood — a dildo had taken care of my hymen long before. Stupidly, we didn’t use a condom. I was terrified for a long week until my period arrived on schedule.

I dated a girl for a few months in high school. I am not sure my family knew we were having sex, but coming out as bisexual to them was easy. I am lucky.

2. How many partners have you had?

I lost track in the high teens during my freshman year of college. I have been keeping statistics here in London. Extrapolating these numbers, the total must be well over a hundred. What can I say? I am a slut.

5. What is your favourite position?

The one with a cock inside me.

7. How did you get to be good at sex?

Practice. How else? Between my sophomore and junior years of high school, I had a sort of boyfriend, who was two years older. We messed around pretty much every weekday during the summer. We taught each other. He was particular about oral sex. I owe my skills as a fellatrix to him. He was also the first guy I had in my ass. My first non-masturbatory orgasms were with him as well. We hooked up again the following two summers but have since lost touch. I wonder how he is sometimes.

In college, a girlfriend and I visited sex clubs. I then played privately with a number of older dominant men. This was my initiation to kink.

9. When did you discover you were submissive?

Same partner as in #7: I always liked that he overpowered me physically during sex. I suppose this was my first submissive experience, though I didn’t call it that. From the beginning, I enjoyed giving pleasure with my body as much as I enjoyed taking it. Submissiveness is an extension of that. I realized as an undergraduate that I liked having new sexual experiences thrust upon me and that I got off on stuff that might be termed kinky. I liked being the obedient girl who surrenders herself sexually to a man. I liked having the endorphin rush of a hard spanking. I liked not having control during sex. The mental response to being suddenly submerged in subspace, the enhancement of the senses, the heightening of my awareness was overwhelming the first time it happened. I have been chasing these sensations ever since.

It took me most of college to justify myself to me. There is no contradiction between feminism and wanting the D/s interaction within sex. Being promiscuous isn’t immoral. Pleasure isn’t wrong. I am no less independent or intelligent for choosing to play as I do. In deciding who my partners are, I look for people who demonstrate respect for me as person rather than regarding me as a convenient set of holes. I may like to submit sexually, but I am not an inferior class of human. This isn’t a lifestyle for me.

14. What is the kinkiest thing you have ever done?

Kink is in the eye of the beholder. For me, I would say it was an incident that happened about a year ago. A regular lover with whom I have been playing for months and had established rapport and trust had me fellate a gun. I had never before touched a firearm. He bade me go on my knees. He placed a condom over the barrel and held it to me at head height. He had me suck it the way I sucked his cock. I touched my lips to it from below. I let my tongue run over the shaft. I licked his fingers. Eventually, I had the gun in my mouth to the trigger. Later, he fucked me with the gun and masturbated me to orgasm.

16. What is the most memorable sex you have had?

It might be in the current boyfriend’s parents’ back yard last summer. He staked me to the ground spread-eagle. My arms and legs were stretched apart. He smeared the sunblock over my skin, and I stayed that way for hours in the hot afternoon sun wearing only a pair of sunglasses. To cool me down, he used the garden hose. He thrust the nozzle against my cunt. He stuffed my underwear in my mouth, taping it shut so that I couldn’t scream when he whipped me. He stuck various things into my pussy: vibrators, dildos, ice cubes, his cock, of course. Clothespins ringed my breasts. He had me piss myself.

Whenever he had to take a leak, he went on my body. He urinated on my legs. Starting at my feet, he brought the stream up the calves and thighs. He tinkled on each of my arms separately. He irrigated my breasts. The pee puddled over my body, pooling at the sternum and the clavicle and where the navel indents. It evaporated from my skin. I smelled it in the air around me. Holding the pussy lips open, he sent the flow of his urine into my cunt. He pissed over my face. I had it in my eyes and hair. Later, he peeled off the tape around my head, brought the cock to my lips, and had me drink direct from the faucet. It went into my parched throat. I gulped it down. The boyfriend marked me as his territory with urine as animals do. The idea turned me on then, as it was happening. The memory of it lingers. It still turns me on.

A reader who is considering opening up his relationship with his girlfriend asks about sexual equivalency and whether he is making a one sided bargain.

These remarks are intended to elaborate on my thoughts in an earlier post. I think a casual heterosexual hookup is easier for a woman to find than it is for a man. This goes double or triple when the girl is attractive, as the reader’s partner appears to be. If I wasn’t after kink as well as sex, I wouldn’t use Craigslist or its counterparts.

The way the equivalency issue worked for us is that while I had more sexual partners in total, the boyfriend had more frequent sex with his regular partners. When I left the US, in addition to the boyfriend, I had a dominant regular, a sometimes kinky but much of the time vanilla regular, and one night stands and short lived flings with friends and CL types. I liked the variety. The boyfriend had two, or rarely three, regular lovers on the side. He saw them on a schedule. He and I would mess around sexually most nights in bed, though we didn’t always go full on. When we were naked together, it was difficult for either of us to keep our hands off. His cock is my favorite pacifier. I liked having it in my mouth, if only for a few minutes before sleep. About half of our sex, or slightly more, was with each other and the rest with extras. I met my regulars every couple of weeks, sometimes only once a month. I consider them good friends. We don’t need to be with each other all the time. Though I am very close to one of his lovers — I sort of introduced them, in fact — threesomes with the boyfriend were infrequent occurrences. He had his relationships, and I had mine. The numbers balanced out roughly. We were scrupulous about keeping the sex safe.

Without the other as a fulcrum, we are both sleeping around with frequency now. He is actively looking for new partners to add to the two that he has. When he visits me in a few weeks, I wonder whether we will return effortlessly to our old patterns. It hasn’t been that long, but things are, undeniably, changed.

Because with time and familiarity sex improves, I want regular partners in London as well. Frank fills the vanilla role for the summer, but this is a temporary situation in which I got spectacularly lucky as I picked him up essentially at random based on looks and the book he was reading. The criteria for being a regular are sexual compatibility and friendship. It’s a lot like dating, which is never easy, particularly when there is also a filter for kink. On personality grounds, the only people here who might have proceeded to a second date are an older American businessman passing through and a man with an unfortunate medical condition.

I want to emphasize that what suits me will not work for everyone even if we are after the same thing in the end. The boyfriend and I started out having multiple partners and simply didn’t shut these activities down when we got serious with each other. We are also both highly non-jealous people — but even so an element of this creeps up from time to time. We love each other and I miss him terribly, but neither of us is busily plotting a life together. If we are still dating several years down the line, then we can discuss marriage and kids and where to put the dungeon. Other folks will be at different places and consequently will need to find their own equilibrium.

I encourage people having a conversation about openness to first of all keep the lines of communication open and to discuss fears, misgivings, hopes, aspirations, and desires with honesty and candor. Finding another couple to swap partners with or visiting a sex club together may be a way to begin in which the issue of sexual equivalency is minimized. Sex can be a grand experiment. Love has a way of enduring. Good luck to us all!

Sex: Procreation is not (today) one of my reasons for wanting to fuck. Sex is a physical act. Though not strictly necessary like oxygen or water or food, the fact of fucking is a humanizing influence, as essential to my soul as exercise or conversation or curling up with a good book. Bodies are playgrounds for creativity. Sex is the collaborative dance.

The pleasure is undeniable, of course. One of the few epiphanies in my life is that first great, searing orgasm I received from a lover. Every masturbatory climax, all the previous incipient fumblings and stumblings with a partner — anything and everything that came before — was as a faded photograph compared to its reality.

I like having a cock inside me. I like slobbering over it. I like squeezing it with the muscles in my pussy. I like how it penetrates my ass. The male penis fills and completes me. I thrill at fucking and being fucked. I also adore when a man devours my cunt. The acts of mating, from the first kisses to getting it on rough, make me feel alive as nothing else does. Sex is my one drug. I have lots of partners. The multidudes allow me to explore the varieties and the vagaries of the sexual experience. I don’t fall into patterns this way. The sex is different each time. This diversity is important to me. I have plenty of fantasies still to live.

Submissiveness: In my day-to-day existence, I am an alpha woman in nearly every respect. But when I am with a man in the sexual context, I prefer to be dominated. I want to be overwhelmed by his presence, his power, his penis. I want to surrender myself to him. I want to be, at last, a woman out of control. Inasmuch as I am capable of the undertaking, I aim to service my partner with my body. I worship his cock. I submit to his desires. I rejoice in being an obedient fuck-toy, a compliant plaything, his willing slut. I want to be the girl he thinks about when he masturbates years later. I say I will do anything, but there are limits. I have used a safeword twice in my life. Few acts I have been asked to perform are too dirty for me, however. I push the old boundaries away and strive to be my lover’s pleasure.

It doesn’t always work like this. Occasionally, I will take a lover for the satisfaction of having excellent sex — Frank looks to be one of these — or I will have a sequence of meaningless one night stands, uncomplicated by power games. With a woman, the dynamic is altogether altered — I prefer to switch.

Giving up control is a trust. Yielding myself to authority is an act of volition. I vet the men to see whether I think they are responsive and responsible, whether we are compatible together even for the space of a single night. I can’t submit to an idiot. I won’t. I need to respect a man’s intelligence to play with him this way. Even so, just because I have given him power and he is an a position of dominance over me and I do as he instructs, it doesn’t mean I submit to him mentally. The psychological and emotional submission is the best part. It rarely happens. He needs to be worthy of it, in my opinion. He needs to draw it out of me. I need to be compelled to give him my all.

Subspace: Getting there is a high. Staying these is a dream. It leaves me weak and emotionally vulnerable. Often I cry — sometimes inconsolably. It is a much needed release.

Most recently, after the man I called Daddy fucked me, I turned into an emotional wreck. The loneliness of being here in London without the boyfriend hit me at that precise moment. It fell on me like a thousand of bricks. Of all the men I have ever known, carnally or otherwise, the boyfriend is the one I most want to submit to. But he lives an ocean away. I felt guilty at having my pleasure here, without him. I felt irredeemably sad. My lover responded by holding me, by stroking my shoulders and back while I sobbed. It may have been minutes. It may have been an hour. I went to sleep, curling myself at his feet on the king sized bed in that hotel room. This is something my boyfriend has me do at home sometimes after sex, as an extension of it. I look up at his body from below. I lap at his toes. I feel like a faithful dog. I am safe and reassured.

Intimacy: I like sharing a bed. I want a man to warm me under the covers with his body heat. I want to snuggle myself next to him, avoiding the great wet spot we have left in the center of the sheets. I want post-coital conversation while I run my fingers through his chest hair, nails raking lightly over his naked skin. I want to lie in his embrace, in the crook of his arm, with my head propped upon his shoulder. I want soft kisses at bedtime. I want the odor of sex lingering in the air, blanketing us as slumber falls.

A reader asks me to elaborate on my open sex life. This is my response.

I can only tell you about my personal history. My relationship with the boyfriend developed in an organic way. I moved to Boston almost three years ago, and just like London, it was a new city, and I slept around. There was one guy I slept with quite a lot. Our bodies fit. I respected his intelligence. We have personalities that mesh well. He is dominant in the bedroom while I enjoy being submissive sexually. Like me, he also slept around. As we were casual to start, this was not problem. We turned each other on with stories about our experiences. (The blog is a way of continuing this conversation.) Eventually, the two of us started dating and shacked up. But we continued to fuck other people as well.

Since we only had the one bedroom, unless one of us was traveling or explicit about spending the night elsewhere, we didn’t bring partners home after six. The trysts in the apartment were typically daytime encounters scheduled while the other person was at work. So that we wouldn’t accidentally intrude, we called each other before coming home during the day. The sheets were constantly in the wash. We decided that condoms were mandatory for messing around and got tested regularly. The majority of the sex I had was with the boyfriend. After all, we shared a bed most nights. The others were fun extras on the side.

I came to care about my regular partners. It may have started differently, but the sex became an extension of friendship and affection. The feelings I had for my other lovers were never as deep or personal or intimate as with the boyfriend. I don’t label myself polyamorous. I am a slut who fucks her friends and gets off with strangers and is mad about one guy in particular.

We are human. At times, there is jealousy and envy and insecurity and confusion. We deal with these emotions as forthrightly as we can. We agree that different people can scratch different itches and occupy different spaces in a life. Some aspects of sex that work fabulously with one partner won’t work as well, or at all, with another. Sometimes I want an anonymous fuck or a bit of casual kink with a stranger. Diversity of experience serves two functions: it keeps us interested in each other and fulfills — or just plain fills — us sexually.

The boyfriend and I Skype every day. I will go back to the US — it is home — and the boyfriend will visit me in London. A year plus is a long time to be separated by five time zones, especially when we are, in many ways, still beginning. Though we are both young, we pretend at maturity. Our relationship may not last. He might meet someone special, or I might. We could grow apart with distance. The world is large and full of possibilities. We know this. But we are content with where we are at this moment, with the patterns of our nights and days. The future will take care of itself.

I am a graduate student from the US who is in London until the end of summer 2011. I am here to do research for my Ph.D. My boyfriend is in Boston, Massachusetts. We have an open sex life: we are each fine with the other sleeping around. I am 24. (Born August 15, 1985 in New York City.) I like to be submissive in bed. I play with women on occasion, but vastly prefer men. I make no apologies for being kinky and promiscuous.